


A Word and a Blow

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Foreshadowing (sort of), Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Protectiveness, can be read with implied tycutio, more gen than ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-11-02 10:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: The day Romeo gets his first taste of a real fight, he is looking for Mercutio.





	A Word and a Blow

Romeo has just turned thirteen. Mercutio, his best friend, is nearly fifteen and the two of them are inseparable. Though, lately, Mercutio has acquired a swordbelt and a propensity to sometimes act in ways that Romeo still finds foreign. Mercutio is stuck in that middle space between early adulthood and childhood where the responsibilities of one start to slowly become apparent while the joys of the second have not yet lost their appeal. Romeo still sees the world as he always had, which sometimes makes Mercutio react with puzzling sharpness. 

It used to be that the Capulet and Montague children, imitating their parents, would scuffle and squabble in the streets over apples stolen from orchards or the grassiest spot on the riverbank. But their fights were merely childish skirmishes, more puppies play-fighting in the grass than grown hounds tearing at each other’s throats. These fights ended in nothing more than scrapes and bruises. Mercutio would often instigate such fights and would tease Romeo and Benvolio if either of them did not want to participate: _“What? Give up our spot to some Capulets? Never!” _But Romeo never thought Mercutio meant it because Romeo had seen him, on multiple occasions, speaking with Tybalt Capulet and several Capulet girls, the older of which clung to him, giggling and preening. 

But lately Mercutio is more judicious in the fights he picks when Romeo is around, especially when older boys are there. “_They have swords, you don’t,”_ is his excuse. Romeo doesn’t particularly mind. He would rather they not fight at all. But it is still strange for Mercutio to be the one to put a hand on Romeo’s shoulder and draw him away from a group of older Capulet boys whom they have known for years. 

His parents tell Romeo that he is not quite old enough to wear a sword, though he knows how to use one. It is not what he’s best at, but Mercutio helps him train and sometimes the three of them, with Benvolio, will spend entire afternoons fencing and joking, safe in the Montague gardens. Romeo loves watching Mercutio fence. He’s fast and lithe, the sword becoming a part of him as he moves. The sun gleams off the metal of the blade and off Mercutio’s thick curls. Sometimes, Romeo is so distracted by this that he loses his footing and ends up on his back, the point of Mercutio’s sword at his throat. There is always a moment of tension, strained and dangerous in its potential, before Mercutio grins and offers him a hand up. Romeo’s stomach twists into knots at that grin and something new and unusual blooms in his chest, though he can never name it. 

Romeo knows real fights don’t end like that. Whoever falls, is bound to lose their life. But he knows this only theoretically. If Mercutio knows for real, he never lets on, except for the small shift he always makes now to put himself between Romeo and any group of Capulets they might pass. 

The day Romeo gets his first taste of a real fight, he is looking for Mercutio. He and Benvolio had split up to find him and Romeo finds himself coming across Tybalt Capulet and several other Capulet boys crowded around a fountain, splashing water at each other in the midday heat. Tybalt is fifteen and he wears a sword like Mercutio does. He is also far more serious than any adolescent boy should ever be. 

“Hey-ho, look what we have here! A little lost Montague all alone.” one of the Capulet boys calls. They surround him before Romeo has the chance to decide whether approaching them is a good idea. But Tybalt is Mercutio’s friend, so Romeo decides to press ahead. 

“I’m looking for Mercutio,” Romeo says brightly, perplexed by their seriousness. Some of the boys are his age, some are closer to Tybalt’s. “Do you know where he might be?”

“Why would I know the whereabouts of a Montague lackey?” Tybalt sneers. One of the Capulet boys makes a move toward Romeo, but Tybalt holds him back with a gesture. 

Romeo’s eyebrows furrow. “He’s not our lackey; he’s my friend. Isn’t he yours?”

The Capulet boys are all now looking intensely at Tybalt who flushes and bristles. “I do not consort with anyone who would call a Montague their friend.” 

Romeo starts to realize that things are not going so well. He is all alone in the courtyard with some seven Capulet boys surrounding him. Four of them are wearing swords. Romeo recognizes most of them as boys they had tussled with before – harmless fights of children. But he is old enough to realize that things are unlikely to end this way now. Romeo straightens, trying to seem taller and larger than he is. “I suppose I should go, then,” he says, his mouth going dry. Yet, somehow, perhaps feeling hurt on Mercutio’s behalf, he finds the courage to say, “I rather think Mercutio would be hurt to know you speak so badly of him. He admires you, it seems to me.”

“He _admires _you, Tybalt,” one of the Capulet boys parrots in a mocking drawl. 

Tybalt glares at the boy, who falls silent, but the group of boys has become jittery, excited, as though in some sort of anticipation. “Well, that’s his problem isn’t it? I know nothing of it.” Tybalt gives Romeo a haughty look. 

“That’s not what it looked like at the carnival last year!” Romeo blurts out before he can stop himself. 

Tybalt turns an even brighter shade of red and advances on him among the snickers and giggles of the other boys. Romeo tries to back away but runs into one of the Capulets who pushes him away, toward Tybalt. Tybalt towers over him, almost a head taller. “You have a big mouth, just like your friend, Mercutio. Speaking is easy. Are you willing to defend your words with steel?” 

Romeo’s eyes widen. This is the last thing he had wanted. “I don’t…” he looks around frantically, wondering how he had ever gotten himself into this situation. “I don’t have a sword,” he finally says, lamely. 

“You know how to use one though, don’t you?”

Romeo swallows. “Yes.”

“Give him a sword,” Tybalt says imperiously, and Romeo finds a sword thrust into his hands. 

He wants to say, _I don’t want to fight you. _He wants to say, _This is stupid, I was just looking for my friend. _But his mouth has gone dry and some part of him feels like backing down from this challenge would mean taking his words back. And that seems to implicate not only his reputation now but also Mercutio’s. He doesn’t care if some stupid Capulets decide it is worth their time to gossip and laugh about him, but he has a suspicion that Mercutio would. 

Romeo raises the sword, its weight unfamiliar and cumbersome. The sun glints off Tybalt’s own blade and It feels far more sinister than when Romeo fences with his friends in the Montague gardens. 

The first blow comes almost unexpectedly. Romeo has just enough time to raise his sword to block it and his arms strain under the weight of the two swords. He is vaguely aware that the circle of Capulet boys has widened as they backed away to give him and Tybalt more room. Romeo tries to remember his lessons, balances on the balls of his feat, adjusts his grip on the unfamiliar sword handle. For a few minutes, things go better – he parries, dances away from Tybalt, even manages to get a thrust or two of his own in. But Tybalt is older than him, taller, stronger, and the sword that Romeo has been given is still a little too heavy for him. The Capulet boys around them laugh and cheer as Tybalt begins to mercilessly drive Romeo back. At one point, his grip on the sword slips and a parry doesn’t fully hold its weight. Tybalt’s sword graves his cheek and falls heavy against his shoulder, slicing though the fabric of his doublet and undershirt. 

Romeo gasps, tries to regain his footing. His stomach twists into knots and he suddenly cannot recall all the tricks Mercutio taught him or all the techniques imparted by his fencing master. It is all he can do to not parry and move further and further back, out of the courtyard and toward the road, with the Capulet boys chasing after him and Tybalt, shouting and catcalling. Romeo moves back and back, his arms shaking under the weight of Tybalt’s relentless attacks. He lets another strike slide off his blade and graze his arm. Romeo cannot be sure if the wetness he feels on his cheek is blood or sweat. 

Back another step, then another, until he suddenly trips and goes down hard on his knees, holding the sword in his hands up over his head as though it were a shield. For a moment, he wonders if Tybalt will run him through. When that doesn’t happen, Romeo chances a look up. Tybalt is standing over him, watching him with cold contempt. He slides the tip of his sword under Romeo’s chin and waits. 

“I yield,” Romeo says, breathless, wanting nothing more than to leave. He wants to cry perhaps even more and forces himself not to. Not in from of the Capulets. Not in front of Tybalt. 

“You fight like a Montague,” Tybalt says, sheathing his sword. “Scurry on home, boy, unless you want another ass beating.” 

Romeo drops the sword he had still been holding on to, pushes himself up, and uses all his willpower to stiffly bow and walk at a reasonable pace to the next corner. As soon as he is out of sight, he begins to run. 

The cuts Tybalt dealt him turn out to be negligible. The one on his shoulder is merely a scratch, the one on his arm tatter-edged but shallow, the one on the side of his cheek looks bad but is also just a nick. Yet, Romeo finds himself shaking uncontrollably as the Montagues’ on-retainer physician patches him up. “Don’t say anything to my father,” Romeo pleads. “I will get in trouble for wondering off. Please.”

The elderly physician clucks his tongue and chides him gently but makes no promises as to telling or not telling Romeo’s father. Once he is done, he looks Romeo up and down and notes, “You are shaking but I do not sense a fever. Ah. A case of the nerves, must be.” He ruffles Romeo’s hair. “Stay here, I will bring something to help you calm.” 

Once he is left alone, Romeo curls up on himself on the wooden bench and buries his face in his arms. He is both terrified and embarrassed at being terrified. He blinks away tears as to not look even more pathetic once the physician returns. Raised voices outside the door to the physician’s rooms make him perk up. 

“I can’t believe you just let him go off on his own!” That is Mercutio. Romeo wipes frantically at his face and only succeeded in smearing the few droplets of blood that were still seeping from the cut on his cheek. 

“Romeo doesn’t go out looking for trouble. I wouldn’t have expected something like this to happen,” Benvolio complains in response. “Besides, I’m not his nursemaid.” There’s a brief scuffle. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. But really, how would I know?” 

They exchange a few more words that are too muffled by the door for Romeo to hear properly. 

“Mercutio, let it be!”

“Get off, Benvolio.” And then Mercutio comes barreling into the room as though expecting someone to protest his presence. Romeo stares at him with wide eyes. “Romeo,” Mercutio says a little breathlessly, with an expression Romeo cannot quite decipher. 

Romeo looks down, embarrassed.

Mercutio comes to sit beside him. “So, I hear you got yourself into trouble,” he starts, clearly trying to keep his tone lighthearted. “Had your first taste of a fight.”

Romeo nods, still not looking at him. “It’s not Benvolio’s fault,” he says, biting his lip. “We were just going to look around for you. I should have been more careful.”

“Of course it’s not Benvolio’s fault. It’s not your fault either. You should be able to walk down the bloody street without getting attacked.” Mercutio is looking at him expectantly and Romeo realizes that he probably wants an explanation of what happened. But Romeo hadn’t even had the nerve to tell Benvolio yet. He only told the physician what was absolutely necessary. “It was Capulets wasn’t it?”

Romeo nods. Mercutio curses quietly under his breath. Romeo hugs his knees again and stares at the opposite wall. He doesn’t know if he should tell Mercutio is was Tybalt and the things Tybalt had said. 

Mercutio reaches out and gently wipes the traces of blood off Romeo’s cheek with his thumb. “Romeo? Romeo. Who hurt you, hm? Who hurt you? Tell me who it was. You just tell me who it was.” 

Romeo shakes his head. 

There is a surprised pause, then: “Why not?”

“You’ll be upset.”

“I’m already bloody upset.”

Romeo hesitates, but he’s too shaken by the afternoon’s events to resist Mercutio’s uncharacteristically soft concern. Mercutio puts a hand on his shoulder and Romeo feels his chest rise in a silent sob. He feels foolish, lost, embarrassed, and frustrated at the same time. Finally, he gives up. “Tybalt,” he says, almost too quiet to hear. “It was Tybalt.” 

“_Tybalt_?” 

Romeo turns to face Mercutio so quickly the room swims for a moment before his eyes. “I wasn’t looking for trouble! I only thought he might know where you are because I thought you were friends! He said unpleasant things about you and I got upset, but I wasn’t trying to provoke him! I—”

“Romeo.” Mercutio pulls him into a tight embrace and Romeo instinctively buries his face in Mercutio’s shoulder. “Shut up.” 

Romeo falls quiet and wraps his arms around Mercutio’s waist. 

“Tell me what happened.” Romeo does. When he’s finished, Mercutio says, “I’m going to fucking kill him.” He pulls back and slides both hands over Romeo’s arms, his eyes latching onto the rips in Romeo’s shirt and the linen bandage on his arm. “You did nothing wrong. We’ll practice some more and if something like this happens ever again you’ll wipe the floor with all those crimson pussies.” 

Romeo manages a smile. 

Mercutio’s expression darkens. “But for now, I’m going to fucking kill Tybalt.” He starts to get up, but Romeo grabs at his arms, and holds on as tightly as he can. 

“No, don’t go!”

Mercutio smirks at him. “Oh, come now, you’re alright.”

Romeo shakes his head frantically. “No, I mean, I don’t want you to fight Tybalt. I don’t want you to go and fight Tybalt. _Please._”

Mercutio tries to gently pry himself from Romeo’s grasp, but without much success. “I can handle Tybalt,” he says. “He’s nothing but a preening pussy cat, only capable on picking on little mice. Let’s see him pick on someone his own size.”

“Please don’t go. It’s no good to fight. What good will it do? What happened already happened. It won’t help anything for you to hurt him. And he might still hurt you. Just stay here and let’s play skip-stones or something else instead.” He gives a desperate tug on Mercutio’s arm. “Please.” 

Mercutio does not look convinced, but he sits back down next to Romeo and fidgets idly with a loose string on the sleeve of his doublet. “Someday, he and I will come to blows anyway.” Something about Mercutio’s tone is deadly serious and a little sad. 

Romeo blinks at him. “Why?”

It must have come out very earnest, because Mercutio looks over at him and smirks in the fond, exasperated way he often does when Romeo blurts out something naïve. “Because he’s always coming for something I’m not willing to let him have.”

Romeo, still confused, begins to ask for clarification but is cut off when the door opens and the physician walks in, followed by Benvolio, who looks a little sheepish. Mercutio gins widely. “Your cousin,” he says, addressing Benvolio, as the physician fusses over Romeo, “has just convinced me to not run Tybalt Capulet through with my randy sword.”

“Mercutio—” Benvolio starts, rolling his eyes as Romeo giggles. 

“It’s a shame. They would have made a nice cross – my sword and the pole Tybalt has stuck way up his ass.” 

“Mercutio!” Benvolio flushes as the elderly physician blanches. Romeo snorts with laughter and exchanges a grin with Mercutio. “You’re disgusting,” Benvolio mutters which only makes Mercutio laugh harder. 

“Will you stay for dinner?” Romeo asks, the tension finally starting to seep out of his body. 

“And endure your parents' awkward politicking as though I have any influence over my uncle?” Mercutio drapes an arm carelessly over Romeo’s shoulders. “For you, sweet Romeo, I’ll endure even that.” 

Romeo presses against his side and smiles contentedly. 

Several years later, Mercutio will fight Tybalt over Romeo after all. And that time, Romeo will not be able to convince him. Neither to not fight, nor to stay.


End file.
